


Vermillion

by feao



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, a reincarnation au centric fic that revolves around how lance and keith meet in their new world!!!, inconsistent tense usage, klance, sort of sad??? sort of bittersweet??? sort of happy???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:24:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feao/pseuds/feao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." - William Shakespeare</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vermillion

It started when he was fifteen, somewhere alongside the playground – maybe even somewhere alongside the road. He doesn’t exactly remember when or what the world looked like at the moment that he saw it; but he did remember a vivid red that passed alongside shops made of silvery glass – a momentary shimmer of vermillion as yellow taxis poured down the street, the soft pitter patter of rain calling out for his name. Every single day he spent in that city, where the yellow and grey seemed to submerge themselves in the noise, he swore that the water was calling his name; as well as another’s.

 _‘It starts with a K,’_ they’d whisper.

“Why does that matter?” He said, pulling his covers all the way to his head, trying to drown out the sound his leaking sink was making.

 _Drip._ _‘Then follows an E.’_ _Drop._ _‘Then… then an I…’ Drip, Drip, Creak._

 _I’m crying._ Lance thinks, curses. _Why am I crying?_

He opts to go out in the late A.M, wearing a worn-down green jacket with a white hood (he pauses, for a moment, wondering where he’d ever gotten such a thing). He walks out the door, heart beating fast as tears began falling faster – harder. He locks the door, he walks some more, he heads for the streets, he jogs, he runs, he sprints, he’s crying. The city is asleep, it’s no longer New York – it’s somewhere faraway, some place he can’t fathom. The stars are bright, the roads have ended, all that’s left is a desert – why was there a desert?

Then, he realises, he’s no longer 15 and no longer on Earth. He tries to remember the stars from home, how they’d look like; for he so often charted them he swore he’d never forget.

_“Was that why you enlisted in the Garrison, Lance?”_

_“Yeah.” He laughed, “It became more than a hobby.”_

He stops running, he’s in the middle of nowhere.

“Whose voice was that?” He says, in between pants.

“You know who it is.” The puddle next to him says, “You know very well who it is.”

He’s scared and confused, so he walks away. He looks up to the stars for guidance, hoping for some word of advice – God, the skies were never as quiet as tonight; but the waters around him shrieked like a Banshee. 

“You know who it is.” They screamed, “You know very well who it is.”

Lance stops walking, looks down at his feet – hands covering his ears. “Stop!” 

“You know it’s him.”

“Who – who’s him? Who are you talking about?! I don’t understand!”

“You know very well.”

_“I should know that by now, man, I know very well.” He grins, hands grazing red._

_“Shut up, Lance.” The vermillion laughs, playfulness, he notes._

“Who?” Lance breaks into another sprint, “How do you know my name?”

Then, a voice that sounds all too much like home.

“You know very well.”

_“I know very well.”_

“Who?!”

_“And what do you know?” The red asks, eyes twinkling in darkness and starlight._

Silence.

_“That your name is Keith,” he smiled. “and that I love you.”_

It starts raining again, but the waters are finally quiet – but all source of noise comes from a single man, with a red jacket fluttering in the wind. His hair, dark as space; his eyes, bright as stars, colored lavender.

“Lance.” He says, voice in his throat.

“Keith.” He cries out, voice all but quiet.

Then the desert backdrop fades like the paint of a worn-down wall and they’re left in New York’s central park. Both are fifteen at heart, seventeen by blood, but a thousand – just between their souls.

“Do you still – ?” 

_Drip._

“I do, do you?”

 _Drop._  

“I do, good God – do I love you? More than anything.”

Then, slowly, they draw close and their lips meet. Then, the waters sigh and weave away – reflecting New York’s pretty lights in their wake. Their last words? 

_It starts with a K… then follows an E…. then… then an I –_


End file.
